


Dancing in the Dark

by AvaRosier



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 19th Century Westeros AU, Cajun!Jon fic, F/M, References to Attempted Rape, might write another fic for this verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-08 05:03:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10379094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaRosier/pseuds/AvaRosier
Summary: Sansa has been avoiding her most ardent suitors when she comes across Jon in the woods one night.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tweed_princess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tweed_princess/gifts).



* * *

 

The wolf led her on a winding path through the swamps that only it knew; Sansa could discern no difference between this tree or that tree. She stumbled and fell onto the mossy overgrowth more than once, and she just knew her lovely underthings were hopelessly stained with mud. At least it was only early winter; the city of Greywater Watch had been built near the swamps of the Neck, where the summers were sticky and the winters so damp they settled into your bones. Tears stung her eyes as she remembered the slavish eagerness in Ramsay Bolton’s eyes as he tore at her beautiful ballgown. This was a small price to pay for escaping him, she reminded herself like a mantra. 

Then she saw it: the moon broke through the clouds above and illuminated a small cabin in the clearing ahead. Orange shadows danced off to the side and she realized that it was a campfire. Fire meant people, didn’t it? And people meant either aid or further danger. The wolf led her towards it. 

A voice called out. “Well, there you are, boy.” A very, very masculine voice. “Did you have a good hunt?” His voice had a lilting brogue to it, where you almost couldn’t make out all the consonants and the vowels stretched out, words rolling on top of one other. Sansa gulped and squared her shoulders before stepping into the firelight. She made out the shape of a man unfolding himself from the log he’d been sitting on. 

Young- perhaps a few years older than her five and twenty- with dark hair that fell in a cloud of curls and even darker eyes that widened perceptibly when he saw that his wolf had brought back a live person. She thought he resembled one of the brooding heroes in the romantic novels she liked to read, even if he wore a roughspun shirt and breeches. His boots were well-worn and spattered with mud.

He turned to address the wolf, who was now sitting back on its haunches and watching the proceedings with scant interest. “When I said I was in the mood for a woman, that wasn’t a command to go out and fetch me one,” he said with mild rebuke. _In the mood for a woman?_ Sansa had never been so insulted- well, actually she had endured worse. Her late husband’s proclivities for heavy drinking and whoring were the entire reason she had sold his properties and settled here in Greywater Watch. But that was neither then nor there. Of all the pompous-

“Excuse me,” she ground out. “I am not a thing to be had just because you have a…a _notion_! I’ll thank you to put that out of your head.” It occurred to her- how could it not- that she was lost and all alone with a strange man who clearly was so poor he lived in a ramshackle cabin in the swamps. A frogman, as the society people in town called them. 

His eyebrows rose, his expression slanting with surprise and faint amusement. “Pardon me, my lady.” His tone was so even she couldn’t be certain he was mocking her. “But you’re a rather unexpected vision in this part of the swamps. What else could you be, but some magical manifestation?”

That gave her pause. “I assure you I am very real and very lost. I’m sure you are unaware, but ladies don’t go traipsing through swamps in a state of undress at this time of the night.” It was the most peculiar thing, however, the way his lips pressed together into a thin line and his nostrils flared. She had insulted him somehow, but she couldn’t be sure in what way.

“But you’re hardly undressed, are you? I reckon you’ve still got at least three layers on: corset, shift, and probably frilly cotton drawers with bowties at the knees, am I right?” She bristled at his familiarity. 

“It’s also improper to be remarking on the state of a lady’s drawers.” She was aware she was scowling at the man, who had not made so much a move to come closer to her. Sansa could almost hear her septa from back home in Winterfell Manor chastising her, “ _Ladies always keep themselves perfectly comported_! _A gentleman wouldn’t want a nagging wife with lines of displeasure on her face_.”

A dark eyebrow arched. “More improper than a lady being alone in the middle of nowhere with a man who is neither husband nor family.” An ugly feeling settled into her belly. Sansa had fought so hard to ignore the whispers that always followed her around town, to be the very picture of respectability. She’d found a fresh start in Greywater Watch, but after tonight, there was no way she wouldn’t be utterly ruined. Widows were given only so much leeway.”

“I hardly chose to be here.” Something must have shown on her face, because the man’s expression vacillated between shock and rage. 

“Have you been abducted? Harmed?” He asked her sharply, taking a step closer but stopping when he noted her wary step back in response.

“No! I mean, a man at the masquerade tried- I got away. But none of that will matter if I’m seen around town in this state. And who knows what horrid tales he’s spreading about me to force my acceptance of his proposal.”  Her chest was heaving with the onset of panic and hot tears finally made their way down her cheeks.

“Stay there. Please.” The man’s eyes were soft as he turned and strode back into the cabin. He returned a moment later with something thrown over one forearm and a bottle in one hand, two cups in another. He bade her to sit down on the log catty-corner from his and handed her what was clearly his jacket. 

“Here, put this on. We’ll have a quick dram or two of whiskey before we head back to town. It’ll warm you up. I know you have no reason to trust me, but I can get you back into your home with none the wiser.”

Of course she couldn’t take his words as truth, but hope- fragile and yearning- sprung eternal.

* * *

As Lord Jon Targaryen sat across from the disheveled woman and admired the way her red hair glowed like an extension of the flames, he silently promised he would try to do something about whatever brute had tried to force himself on her, to trap her. He would’ve continued to serve in the army had it not been for his half-brother, Aegon, dying with neither wife nor issue, leaving the entire Targaryen estate to Jon. He might have attended the best schools in Westeros and grown up in the three homes his father had owned, but Jon had never been entirely comfortable around what was termed ‘polite society’. Hence why he tried to eschew it all for a few days a month in order to live out here in the small plot of swampland he’d purchased. 

Then the redhead held out one hand primly, still holding the cup of whiskey in the other. “Lady Sansa Stark,” she introduced herself. Jon realized he had heard of her while reaching for her hand, on which he did not place a kiss, not wanting to correct her misconception about his social status right away. But the rumblings about a new face in town had mostly referred to her as ‘the Widow Hardyng’. 

“Jon,” he answered her simply. “And that’s Ghost.” His wolf let out a small yip that had Sansa giggling. It had to be the whiskey pooling in his belly that made him feel so warm. 

“Jon what?”

“Does it matter?” 

Sansa ducked her chin down and peered into her cup as if it contained something more interesting than alcohol. Jon regretted the way he’d teased her earlier, but she had gotten under his skin with her comments about what a common man like him would know or not know. It was clear that Sansa’d had a very genteel upbringing, though after her ordeal tonight, he could see the steel underneath. 

“No, I suppose it does not,” she murmured a little sadly, picking at the cuff of his jacket sleeve. “Your jacket is in rather desperate need of mending, you know. I could fix it for you- I’ve always been praised for my deft skill with a needle.” Her eyes seemed impossibly blue as they earnestly implored him to accept this small measure of gratitude.

“Perhaps I’ll take you up on that, my lady.”

Jon was perfectly aware that for all intents and purposes, Lady Sansa Stark was ruined. And damn him, he had a soft spot for women like her, especially after what the scandal of his mother and father. Well, not if he had anything to say about it. He’d guide her back to her home, hopefully coax a name out of her so that later he could head to whatever asshole’s townhouse it was with a few of his friends from the warehouse district and threaten the bastard into silence. Maybe even dispossess him of Lady Sansa’s dress so he would not have that evidence at hand.

If worse came to worse, he could claim to have been courting Sansa when an attempt was made at dishonoring her. He would only be doing the honorable thing, he told himself. What good was the Targaryen name if he couldn’t throw it around to help someone? And Jon could be absolutely ruthless in a duel. He hadn’t the faintest clue whether Sansa would consent to a marriage of necessity in order to save face and it terrified him in that moment, how a part of him jumped at the possibility. Jon had been avoiding all the marriageable women in the city who were suddenly coming out in droves now that he was Lord Targaryen. It was a constant source of bitterness that he’d not been considered a good prospect before. Would Sansa be the same? 

Jon wasn’t sure what it said about him that he was now willing to take a wife who might only care about his name and wealth, and never love him.

 


End file.
